When The Sun Goes Down
by Zero.Elektronik
Summary: Kenny muses on certain people in South Park. Karen/Christophe.


**AN: Written for Georgia, who is my Karen 3 Based loosely on the song by Artic Monkeys.  
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When The Sun Goes Down

Many people wonder, "Hey, who's that girl there?". They see her each night, feet trudging slowly through the snow in worn out, ripped heel, toes frozen from the snow (These are the only shoes she owns though - passed down to her from her drunken mother.)Arms wrapped around herself in an old, second-hand leopard print fur coat that reeks of alcohol. Her pretty long brown hair falling to her mid-back, the snowflakes resting on it like glitter in the streetlights. A tight, dirty green shirt under her coat covered in cigarette ash, her short and frayed second-hand skirt falling to the top of her pale thighs. People often wonder what went wrong so she spends each night, walking circles on the lonely streets. There's something strange about it. Of curse, she's not always like this. During the cold days where the sun is shining (well, as much as it shines in South Park) she's just an innocent little girl in a shitty family situation.

Most people look at him and think, "What went wrong there?". Give him half a chance, he'll have taken everything of sentimental and cash value from you. It's not hard to tell by looking at his tanned, scarred face with an obvious broken nose and dark, worn eyes that he's got a long list of offences. The obvious gun tucked into his waist belt and the shovel strapped to his back, the rusted blade stained with blood. Usually, he's seen walking around at night, various, scantily-clad and beautiful women on his arms. Cigarette always between his lips, and his body covered in bruises and bandages, his hair unevenly cut and dirty,(He never does see hygiene with much importance.)If you asked anyone, they'd tell you how they feel sorry for his mother, for having such a scumbag as a son(He never does see hygiene with much importance.) Of course, he's not always like this. By day, he's just a run-of-the-mill bad boy exchange student from France.

One night, they meet. He hasn't been on his usual round yet, walking with his hands stuffed into his pockets and she's rubbing her hands together to try and keep warm. She looks up, tossing her brown locks behind her shoulder and smiling. He smirks, exhaling the smoke and shaking his head before stepping out of her way and walking past. She nods and carries on her way, and it's awfully unusual for the both of them. It's not quite right, they must be up to something, right? O course, I start to wonder what his story might be - they say it changes when the sun goes down.

He speeds down the street on his Motorbike, (A GSF1200S BANDIT to be precise), the lights blaring in the night time darkness. She see's her shadow and the glow around her against the white, sparkling snow and turns around to see him, pulling over at the side of the road, smirking; the scar on his cheek making him look even more smug. Her looks her up and down - her outfits nearly the same as the previous day, except today, her hair is tied up with bits of old fabric. She happily hops on the back of his bike, pale skinny arms wrapped around his muscular chest - covered only in a thin black shirt. She leans close to him, absorbing the warmth off his back, because standing out in the snow - she really must be fucking freezing.

I, However, sit at home. Listening to my parents argue drunkenly. There's a loud smash, and I'm guessing another plate just broke in my mothers hand - against my fathers head. I sit outside the front door, my own bottle in hand and a cigarette in the other, the hood of my worn and burnt trademark Orange parka covering my face. My feet kicking the snow lazily, my toes are cold and the holes in my socks aren't really helping. I don't know how long I've been out there, but somewhere along the line she comes home, hair a mess and her clothes covered in ash with cigarette burns fraying in her skirt and shirt. I hear the roar of a motorbike and see the flash of headlights at the bottom of the street as she walks closer, stepping over me and pushing the door open slowly. Exhaling the smoke from my frozen lips slowly, I look up at her and for once, show a concerned expression. I don't have to say anything because I know she already knows what I'm going to say. "He's a masterpiece of self-destruction. He's up to something, I hope you're not involved at all." She grins and leans to kiss me on the cheek, her lips are warm against my cold, red cheeks . With that, she walks into the house, changing into her usual clothes and falling asleep to the lullaby of drunken domestic abuse. When the sun comes back up, the day goes on as normal.

They say it changes when the sun goes down around here. I guess they're right.


End file.
